through stormy eyes
by lievashroo
Summary: She's a girl. No, she's a lady. Remember that. Sometimes ladies are subjected to some scary stuff. Maybe she's in it. Maybe not.


To tell the truth, I have never really been the social type—but people still flock to be anyway. Ever since I was younger, mom would always comment on how people were just pulled to me, like metal to a magnet. I think my brother was jealous of me for it, but he was a hateful man—I didn't let it get to me. Our love was an odd one, honestly.

Our whole family was weird. Mom had always been sick, y'know… she couldn't get out of bed much. In fact, after I was ten or so, I don't remember her getting out of bed at all. She didn't live much longer after that, though, so I guess it was explainable. Dad was always grouchy, not in a bad way; he loved me, but I think he loved order more than us kids. Or not. Who knows, the love of his life was dying, of course he was going to be acting funny.

I had two brothers. Johnson and Gillian. Gillian was the middle one, Johnson was the older one. I was the youngest child, and also the only girl—I think that was why Dad coddled me so much, I was his baby girl, after all. Johnson was the star, though, he always had been. I'm not quite sure why, though, it was always Gillian that excelled at every single thing he did. Sports, school… girls. Oh, the girls loved Gill, but he didn't quite love them back. He didn't really believe in 'relationships' more than he did looking and touching, no commitments. Johnnie, on the other hand, he was the lover boy. He swooned after so many girls and kissed so many girls, I lost keeping track of them after the twentieth of the month. I was young while he was still alive; I think my thirteenth year was his last. He was eighteen, then… and God, did he love his life.

He died in a car crash. Gillian was never the same. I learned to grieve and move on, and keep Johnson warm and cozy in my heart. My dad did the same …almost. He held a grudge toward the friend John had been riding with, and also toward Gillian, for not going with Johnson. I don't see why he did; Gill most likely would have died too. But dad never treated my poor brother the same after that, and he, too, was never the same. I think that was the day—and months after—that all that hate filled his heart. I cried, I cried so hard. He stopped playing with me, Gill did… he stopped socializing, but I'll respect him for one thing; his grades held strong. While mine were slipping with depression, his were flawless, as usual. Sometimes I envy him for this ability, but at the same time, it makes my stomach churn—even the death of his very own brother, his flesh and blood, wasn't enough to lose the importance of his schooling. I didn't know he was that selfish.

I never went to college. Sure, I thought about it… but school wasn't really my thing. I didn't like to be tied down, I wanted to travel the world and see the sights. Neither Gillian nor my father was pleased with this, and I couldn't really take the wrath of my mother because she only lived four months after my high-school graduation, anyway. Cancer was a strict mother _that_ was for sure. A proven fact. I laugh as I remember how my mom would joke and play on how she could hardly remember she was sick, how optimistic she was even though her youthful death was inevitable. She was only forty-five when she died. What a shame.

While my brother became a doctor I became a waitress at a local diner, I didn't make much but I can say I was happy, I can't say the same for Gill.

Nor my father.

I was, though, and I stuck with that. I liked the cherry red material that laden the chairs and booths, the friendly faces and the welcoming 'hellos.' I loved how the men would whistle at me and call me 'lady,' or 'ma'am,' and the blushes that would rise to my face when a particularly good looking one would ask me if extremely large tips were accepted. Whether that met it in a dirty way or not, it felt awful sweet to get a fifty-dollar bill laid on the table just for me and my 'country sweetness.'

Yeah, I was born in the deep south—Florida, to be specific. I moved to a small town named 'Cherokee,' in Northern Pennsylvania, and God did I love it there. My country accent never did leave me, and around the town I was known as 'Belle,' as in a 'Southern Belle.' Mainly the men called me this; woman didn't like me too much. Not that I liked them, in my town woman were trashy, maybe it was because there were twice as many woman as there were men, and that just made it tougher to get with one. Maybe not.

Heck, I'm a nice lady, I am, really. But sometimes my gender just bothers me. It's about being yourself to get a fella, not flaunting your fake titties and shaking what your momma gave you. Well, maybe I was just old-school, but I think the men find it alluring when they have to imagine what's under your uniform. Even if you are a little chunky, if ya got a pretty face, a kind smile, and a charismatic personality, the men will _flock _to you. Flock!

But maybe that's just me rambling.

I like a lot of things, especially men—but when it comes to them, I must admit, I'm flirty, in a classy way of course. They always tell me I should have been born in the forties. Maybe I should have been. Maybe not. They say that's why I work in a fifties diner, because it puts me in the era I belong in. I always laugh at that, because it _does_ fit what everyone says. People simply make me laugh.

I have a lot of pet peeves, though. Especially with whores (as I have… kindly noted above) and waking up late. Anytime after nine and I'm getting frustrated. I have always been a morning person, no matter how late I stay up—which usually isn't too late, but y'know. A 'friend' comes over and who knows what's gonna happen, but hey, I'm too high-class for that. I don't advertise myself to men too much; in fact, I haven't had a boyfriend in many, many years. Not that I'm complaining. Commitment sounds rather boring, doesn't it?

Crush on whomever you want, that's what I always say.

My brother is married, somehow. I don't know how that ever happened. He's a handsome man, that's for sure, but he's just a jerk—he reminds me of a drill sergeant. His wife is a tiny little thing, with long, brown hair and the prettiest green eyes you'll ever see. She's from the Big Apple, and boy, is it ever obvious by the way she talks. When she gets going I have no idea what she's saying. She's Italian, too, and when she gets riled her accent is thick. Personally, I think Gill thinks it's hot, but he'll never admit it.

Whether she really loves him or not is unsure. He's hot, muscular, blond and rich though. That's always a plus. She acts like it, sure—but she is always eyeing up his friends. I think she is cheating on him. I pray not. He's really enamored with her. It's sweet. Kinda.

Anyhoo. I'm getting off of what's important. You don't care about my brother or his action, correct? I have been through some _stuff, _let me tell you that! It seems like the men I do fall in love with always end up being the wrong kind of people. The last man I was head over heels for ended up being in the mafia. How quaint. My life really is like a forties drama, isn't it? Heck—why am I asking you? Its plain obvious enough, I'm certain.

So. I try to stay away from the boys, oh, not literally; I flirt until I'm blue in the face, yet I'm a lady. _I'm a lady_, underline that. Copy and paste, save it. Imprint it in your mind. I'm no Paris Hilton.

I'm not bad lookin', I must say. I have short, shoulder length brown hair, almost dirty blond with natural hints of red, and grayish-blue eyes. I'm not a stick but I'm healthy, and I guess my chest is something to look at. I'm tall, five foot nine to be exact, and I have the cutest button nose ever if I do say so myself. Scarce amount of freckles trace my cheeks and dot my nose, but they're easily covered with make-up… when I wear it, of course. I'm not being snooty but I don't really need the stuff. My cheeks always have color to 'em and my eyes are big enough, I don't get blemishes much and my lips are born rosy. Maybe I'm just lucky. Maybe not.

I'm a fruit-loop. A closet fruit-loop.

Wow.


End file.
